


Connoisseur

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, M/M, Romance, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spy and Demo talk whiskey, then get frisky.  Demoman, surprisingly, is a man of taste.  And Spy tastes pretty damn good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connoisseur

There was a burn.

Not the customary, vitriolic, furious burn of something that's never seen the inside of a cask. Not the gagging, paint-thinner white dog taste of something distilled from corn and hate. It was the burn of peat, or smoke, of a mild hint of vanilla with a dry, acidic edge. It was the burn of malt and time and care, a burn Spy knew well, but was surprised to find on the tongue of his lover.  
“You don't taste like battery acid that's been aged in an old boot. What is the occasion?”

Demoman frowned at the Frenchman in his arms, their kiss broken with the snotty quip. “Romantic.”

“Pardon me, but I am surprised. You don't taste like burnt hope and desolation. Don't tell me you've discovered proper whiskey?”

That earned a laugh. For a man who made his trade with honeyed words and surreptitious speech, he was certainly brutally honest with his lover. Ruffling up the smaller man's dark locks, Demoman leaned back against the wall his bed sat against, bare skin against cool paint and concrete. Spy sat in his lap, leaning against his chest, cool skin warmed where it pressed against the Scotsman's. “Turns out ye don't ken everythin' then. Ye think I've been drinkin' this long and this much without learnin' a thing or two about the demon?”

“Judging by the swill you imbibe during work hours, is it a difficult assumption to understand?”

“You ken what they say about assumptions. I work best when I'm flothered. Always 'ave. 'S why I drink that shite. It's rotgut to the core, for sure, but it works in a pinch and gets me pissed right quick. Don't mean I don't ken good whiskey when I 'ave it, love. I'm a man of taste.”

Spy snorted. “You know a good thing when you have it?”

Demoman responded to the very plain prompt by squeezing Spy's bum, his other broad hand running down his lover's front to tease at his half-hard erection. “I think I ken a thing or two.”

The Frenchman's head lolled back onto the bomber's shoulder, his body going limp in the arm around him, sliding up to catch him as he fell slack. A soft moan slithered from between Spy's lips. Skilled, practiced hands, used to delicate mechanisms and careful measurements, danced along sensitive flesh, drawing the rogue to stand full as the rest of him grew more and more boneless. Fingerprints of flame, whorls and loops of electricity trailed in his wake, drawing shallow breaths from the supine man in his arms. Pale flesh flushed with red and pink, blooming across cheeks and nose in the heat of Spy's lust.

The taller man laid his lover down gently on the bed, lifting him enough to move out from under him. Spy watched intently as Demoman settled between his legs and gazed up at him with mischief in his eye. He couldn't help but be charmed by the grin that spread across the bomber's face, enamoured with that handsome smile. All the more enchanting, however, was the warm tongue that had begun to trace circles along the ridge of his glans.

“Merde,” Spy gasped, falling back onto the bed. Demoman chuckled darkly and began to assault him with long, flat laps at his frenulum, each lick running up to the tip of his cock with the tip of his tongue. That skilled, broad hand found its way to his balls, fondling him gently as he went about his task.

A delicate hand found its way to the back of the Scotsman's head, urging him onward, twitching as fingers sifted through thick, tightly curled hair. Demoman responded the way any reasonable man would; he licked his lips, then wrapped them around Spy's cock, swallowing him down to the root with no warning. His tongue laved along the length of his lover's shaft, head pressing against the back of his throat, his chin gently resting on the smaller man's balls.

Spy melted; a writhing, panting puddle on the bed, awash in unabashed ardor. Heat washed over and through him not in waves, but a steady, increasing fever. A crescendo not of sound but sensation, fueled by that warm mouth and that hot tongue and that perfect wet pressure all behind soft, soft lips. The muffled groans of a man enthralled with his task only served to weaken Spy further, drunk on lust and more.

Like thunder through the air rattling the windows of an ancient house, Demoman's low groans of arousal rumbled through Spy, ebbing through him and making him tremble. Tremors of bass vibrated along his sensitive flesh, an intense, electric buzz assaulting his nerve endings.

His head thrown back, Spy leaned up onto his elbows, arching into his lover's perfect mouth. With a whine, a strained moan of desperation, he came, his eyes open but unseeing, great blotches of white sparking across his vision, blotting out every sensation but pure tactile bliss.

Demoman held the rogue's hips tight, keeping him aloft and buried in his throat as he swallowed his seed. Sucking a little longer, he waited until he could hear Spy whimpering from overstimulation before he finally pulled off, letting him drop to the mattress in a heap. A grin crept across his face, somewhere between smug and completely earnest. The Frenchman panted and smiled, sated and undone. The taller man captured that limp hand in his own rough, strong grip, lacing their fingers together.

“So like I said. I'm a man of taste. An' I ken a good thing when I 'ave it.”

**Author's Note:**

> requested by an anonymous Tumblr user


End file.
